Tonight we met up with Brad Shephard who is here on Gurus business - something to do with collecting money, which sounds like a good business to be in. We walked down to Caravan of Dreams - a great vegetarian. They do excellent burritos with brown rice and avocado and they have a good beer selection to compliment them. We picked up the fresh Village Voice from outside the Village Voice office and found our name in the Brownies ad, just to make sure that it was true - we really were playing in New York. We went with Brad uptown to his hotel room - a tiny Phillipe Starck designed shoe box in the Paramount, and had a drink with him next door in the Rum Bar in the Edison Hotel hoping to meet John Prine who was staying there. We met Iris Dement and her tour manager instead. I saw her play in Sydney last year and was very excited to meet her. I don’t think she was that excited to meet me. I tried not to gush but her tour manager made me feel okay about it.

When we finally got back to the loft at around 3am we couldn’t get in. They don’t have a buzzer, we didn’t have a key, and we had mobile numbers for everyone but no one was answering. We stood out on W 27th street and shouted up at the windows and threw dimes that bounced off the glass with a ping, and kept calling all their numbers from a payphone. Across the road we saw a crack deal taking place between three guys on the bonnet of a car. They couldn’t have been more nonchalant about the fact that we were there. One of them seemed to be on his run as a garbage collector. We were wondering about that, because not much garbage seems to get collected. The street is ablow with random litter on any given day. Eventually, just as we were eyeing off a seedy looking hotel down the street and considering checking in for the night, one of the loft posse finally picked up his cell phone and let us in.

Nick and I had to meet Wayne at the venue for the Luna Lounge show and despite there being at any given time, a million yellow cabs coursing through the veins of Manhattan streets, we could not for the life of us flag one down. We had guitars and stuff to carry and it was raining and we walked a few blocks as it got later and later until finally we flagged a cab and as soon as we opened the door we realised why it was empty. We were just about knocked out cold by the most evil, foul, unearthly stench you have ever come across. But we were by now desperately late and freaking out so we steeled ourselves and sat there, completely horrified, trying not to breathe or come into contact with any surface. Of course there was a fair amount of "it’s the beast!" and "sauce me!" going on afterwards a la the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s car gets infected with an odour.

The show was okay. Just okay. We enlisted a keyboard player that we had neither played with before nor rehearsed with. We had met him once and he did have a copy of our album and he did, to his credit, do a fine job, but you know, you just can’t do that, and if there’s a fault that knievel has it’s that we sometimes take our winging it, loose collective approach too far and well, there’s a time and a place, and your big showcase gig for CMJ in New York probably isn’t either.

Day 5  This morning we had a meeting at Wayne’s publishing company with an interested record label. The publisher had set it up for us and Wayne had a bad vibe about it. He suspected that the record label had already passed on us but had been persuaded to take the meeting anyway. There was supposed to be a hurricane in New York today so there was a suitable amount of chaos but it was more like what we in Australia call "rain". Anthony from Minty Fresh records met us in the reception area and we sat on the couch until the publisher arrived. During the meeting he took advantage of the opportunity to promote his other bands to the publisher, but the publisher was trying to sign the artist formerly known as Prince ("it would be cool to sign the song 1999 in 1999") and wasn’t really interested in his label’s bands. By the end of the meeting we really only had one burning question: How are you supposed to address the artist formerly known as when you meet with him? Apparently it’s okay to just use ‘the artist’.

Anthony gave us a quick coaching session on how the music industry works here - the corruption in radio, the net music boom (he knew a lot about music on the net), the advertising space in record stores all being stitched up by majors, the new technology that will soon mean a store can have a cd burner linked to satellite so that instead of carrying stock, except for maybe the top twenty cds, they can burn on demand as well as download artwork. He said that there was a bit of a scam going in radio where a promo guy pays a programmer a fee as a ‘consultant’. They then ‘consult’ with them about what music they will play and the consultant in turn gives them the exclusive privilege of being a ‘consultant’ only for them, so the promo guy gets to promote his stuff exclusively to the programmer. If the programmer says they don’t want to listen to the promo person’s stuff anymore they withdraw the fee. For not the first time in New York, I felt way out of my depth.

We hung out in the publisher’s office when she went off to ‘the artist’s’ listening session and called Chris, our man in Boston, who had organised a show for us there. About half an hour later, just when we were starting to get into the swing of having our own uptown office, the whole building was evacuated. All the businesses were sending everyone home "cos of the hurricane". Like a lot of things here, this decision seemed to be made entirely on the basis of litigation fear.

Later that day I went down to CBGB to see Mary Lou Lord but when I got there it seemed she wasn’t playing. The "hurricane", messed up a lot of planned CMJ shows. Mark Olsen was still scheduled though for 11pm - half an hour away, so I waited while meantime someone was playing truly awful music and I was sans earplugs.

Wayne met up with me at CBs later and we watched a short and good set by Chokebore with very funny between song banter. The Mark Olsen turned out to be a different Mark Olsen. Not the Jayhawks/Harmony Ridge Creekdippers/partner of Victoria Williams guy I was expecting. Ah America. You’re big. Big enough it seems for two singer/songwriters called Mark Olsen.

We went on to see Quasi at Brownies. Wayne tried to talk to Janet but she blew him off with some cryptic comment about being ‘on snow patrol’ which we thought was a drug reference until a few days later when we saw a poster for an Irish band called Snow Patrol and we realised that she must have got the accent confused.

Day 6  I woke up too early again this morning. I don’t think I’ve slept more than a few hours a night for two weeks now. There was a ‘ping’ on the glass of the window. It was Nick, squinting up in the sunlight, throwing dimes. I chucked him down some keys.

Day 7  So finally I had 11 hours sleep and instead of feeling refreshed I feel terrible. We went out for brekkie - the usual crappy food. I ordered a focaccia - they served it with fries. So glad I don’t have to go through the coffee rigmarole. I gave up about six weeks ago and figured I would stay off it as long as I could so that I didn’t have to worry about trying to get a good coffee in the states. Every day I watch as Wayne and Nick nervously order their ‘double shot au laits’ and wait to see what they are going to get. Jason Faulkner was sitting in the café and we said hi.

Wayne and I left Nick who was going off record shopping. We were heading up to the convention centre to hand out some cds. I really wasn’t into that idea. I had zero energy left and felt like I needed to have a day off but had to remind myself that that was not why we were here. We caught the subway uptown. As we were walking across to the hotel where CMJ was based we passed 5th Ave where Lever House was and got excellently side-tracked by our appreciation of fine post war architecture (and rescued from the dullness of the convention centre). Wayne checked out the Seagram Building, exploring the foyer and found the Four Seasons Bar and restaurant (not to be confused with the Four Seasons Hotel) with totally original Philip-Johnson-in-the-sixties interior. The bartender said Wayne was required to wear a jacket so we were turning around to walk out when he said "Shall I get you one?" Wayne sipped a glass of very expensive Californian chardonnay and sat there in an oversized corporate blue jacket with gold buttons so he could quiz the bartender about Mies Van DeRoe. The bar tender said that most of the design was Phillip Johnson’s, who was his protégé at the time, but based on Mies’ concept. Phillip Johnson still dines every week at his own reserved table.

Back at the loft, Ray — a music lawyer, wanted Wayne to listen to a track from a band he was working on. He played it to him in his bedroom while a couple of band members sat around. They were trying to get the mix right and asking for Wayne’s advice. All I remembered about it was that the singer had a really unusual feminine voice… About a year later we would hear the song again. And again and again and again and again. It went "I’m just a teenage dirtbag baby…"

Tonight we met up with Anthony from Minty Fresh again at Luna Lounge. There were a few Danish bands playing. The one we saw played sleek Euro pop with a keyboard playing early-Bono style front person who looked about 17 and was saying things like "we’re going to play the best show of our lives!" We went for a bite wth Anthony and his friend who works for a booking agency in Chicago and from there Wayne and I caught a cab up to the Town Hall again to see Freedy Johnston who was supporting Billy Bragg, arriving just in time to get the last two CMJ passes. Freedy played Bad Reputation last and it was glorious. I couldn’t help but feel that Billy Bragg didn’t need the band. Who needs to hear Milkman of Human Kindness with all that frilly unnecessary embellishment?

We came back to the loft for a while and I tried to check our email but the server was down. We watched some TV then caught a cab down to the Knitting Factory, which has about 4 stages and it took us a while to find the main one. Nick was there, drinking vodka and cranberry and reflecting on his exhilarating NY day. Damon and Naomi from Galaxy 500 were playing. We sat in the front bar facing the street and had a drink then watched the Rachels who played spacious and atmospheric instrumentals with drums and guitar, piano, cello etc. They were quite breathtaking. We bought their cd and moved on to the Luna Lounge and stayed for about three songs of Lotion. They were playing a rockin’ cover of Love Is the Drug. The venue was so packed however that there really wasn’t room for three more so we decided to move on to the Lakeside Lounge via a pizza slice on Ave A. We ran into Wayne’s friend Nelson who has a radio promo business and Eric who works for a label called Radical. Like most nights it was probably about 4am by the time we went to the deli and bought some more groceries before heading back to the loft.

Day 11  The Brownies show was excellent. We think it might have been one of our best shows ever. We had a big night afterwards hooking up with a couple of Australian friends and drinking Margueritas at 7A, and Nick and Wayne and I went on, once again, to the Lakeside Lounge.

But now I’m sitting in the National Car Rental office on E.12^th. Both our credit cards were declined for the rental amount. Nick’s coming down to try his card and I’m waiting with the mountain of gear which is about five times bigger than me so I don’t exactly know how I would stop anyone who tried to take anything. Wayne’s gone for coffee and water and to phone Chris for directions. It’s still stressful for us driving in Manhattan. Last time we got exactly half a block before a cop pulled us over and gave us a ticket.

Day 12  Feels like a Sunday. We played in Boston (actually, Cambridge) at the Abbey Lounge last night. We got a great response — sold some singles and some t-shirts, including two to a pair of loud, beer drinking jock guys. One of them yelled at me in close proximity "I’m gonna be screaming about Knievel to everyone I know!"

The band we played with, the Pee Wee Fist, were pretty amazing. Very Pavement-y with a theremin and a piano accordion and a saw player and six people on stage. Wayne was electrified by them and in his excitement drank way too much and allowed them to entice him onto the stage to sing a song with them that he had never heard before. He made me laugh so much that I felt something — like a veil of stress I’d been wearing since we started planning this trip, being lifted off my frozen, frowny features.

Chris drove us out to the beach yesterday. A gorgeous day, a great drive through beautiful countryside and the beach was flat and wide with only a few people. The water was freezing. The seagulls were big and plump with a fawn coloured variety that were very pretty, as well as the old grey and white. The dunes were fenced off with little signs to protect the native birds and their nests. The whole Massachussets experience is very civilised. It’s a bit segregated though. I’ve hardly seen a black person since I got here.

Chris’s house is a little old two-storey clapboard that he has done a lot of work on. Everything in it seems slightly miniaturised. Small doorways, staircases, low ceilings, but it’s light and cosy, not oppressive, and stacked with all the greatest books and music and even an excellent video collection. We watched The Misfits and I resolved to make the pilgrimage to Marilyn’s house when we were in LA. We were about to embark on a Woody Allen marathon but sleep got the better of us.

We were going to leave Boston today but it was so relaxing and friendly we decided to stay an extra night and drive back to NY in the morning before flying on to LA Monday. Nick will fly straight home from NY while Wayne and I are going on to LA for a few days.

Day 13  We spent our last night in New York at a friend of a friend’s apartment. It is in the East Village, and tiny, but they were away so we had it to ourselves. Wayne, Nick and I went out for a drink. There was a weird vibration on the streets and we didn’t feel so safe and jovial. We saw a commotion not far from Brownies - a young student-y looking guy had been mugged and had his face slashed with a razor. From the other side of the street he seemed okay as he told a cop what happened but half his face was a curtain of blood.

We headed over to some bars on Avenue B and a rat the size of a not-so-small dog tumbled out of a pile of garbage as we walked passed, squeaking demonically and running, in confusion, straight at me. We all jumped about ten feet - already spooked by the mugging, but I jumped the highest and Wayne and Nick laughed heartily at my expense. We made it to a bar that had little cobalt blue lights and we drank vodka and, as if we wanted to keep scaring ourselves, started sharing stories about ghosts and psychic encounters. Nick told about waking up once and thinking his grandfather’s ghost was sitting on his bed and saying "Is that you Pop?" I talked about how I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night to see this shadowy human figure near the door that’s just like a negative image moving around on my retina so I know it’s not real, but I can’t blink it away, and Wayne talked about once when he woke up from a terrible nightmare, reached up to turn on the light and as he did the light globe exploded.

Back at the apartment we went to bed in our respective corners of the confined space to the sound of the Rachels cd, and I lay there wondering what each of us was thinking there in the Manhattan dark — a dark that is never black, but always imbibed with signs of life, and makes me think of that Victoria Williams song "the lights of the city look so good, almost like somebody thought they would". I imagined that Nick would be lying there, reviewing his first trip to New York, thinking about his girlfriend and his friends and the record store and his lifestyle in Sydney and how comparatively easy it was to the frantic, cramped, confronting experience here; and Wayne would be scheming, planning, working everything out in his head — how we would get the next record finished and where, and setting himself impossible deadlines for its release to spur himself on; and I lay there asking the questions I can never hope to answer - who am I, why are we here, what are Nick and Wayne thinking…

As we lay there in our own worlds thinking our own thoughts a small part of us seemed connected through the vibrations created by the Rachels in the air — and that’s in essence the same connection that brought us here — the music — first time for Nick, fourth for me, fifth for Wayne - to this amazing place with millions of souls crammed into the few mile radius around us. Just outside the door.